——of the Copybook Headings
by H.P. Birdman
Summary: It's not a western, it barely even made it past the lobby of the theater, he just had to get away to discover who he was. Everyone knew the ending of the story, but nobody knew the content. When the camera is turned on and those affected are asked, what story will be told? Of that, you will have no control.
1. To a Mouse

— **of the Copybook Headings  
** _words by H.P. Birdman (unless noted)_

It's not a western, it barely even made it past the lobby of the theater, he just had to get away to discover who he was. Everyone knew the ending of the story, but nobody knew the content. When the camera is turned on and those affected are asked, what story will be told? Of that, you will have no control.

—

 ** _If you are on desktop, please note that this story looks much more pleasing to the eye with the "Story Width" set at 1/2._**

—

"Not only intellectuals, however, but society at large seemed to Kipling to have fallen into habit of wishful thinking and to have forgotten the age-old, unfashionable wisdom enunciated by the Gods of the Copybook Headings." - Andrew Rutherford, "Introduction" in _War Stories and Poems_ by Rudyard Kipling

—

 **Chapter One: To a Mouse**

—

 _I noticed the woman across from me was getting slightly agitated, her chipped fingers drumming across her leg while her foot beat a tattoo against the carpeted floor. I gazed past her slightly auburn hair at the gaffer that was behind her._

" _Are we almost ready," she asked for me, her voice steady as her leg bounced to an unknown song._

" _Just a moment," my assistant said from my rear. I breathed in deeply, willing for my assistants to feel my annoyance. We had been granted a middling six hours - and nothing more! As I had been reminded repeatedly throughout the back and forth that led to this day - with what I thought was the most important subject of this documentary, at least the most important one in which I had been granted access to._

 _Every second lost felt like a second that the story flittered further out of my grasp._

 _After what felt like hours the lighting was just right, dancing off the woman across from me while framing her high cheek bones in just the correct light. I waited for the signal from my director of photography as I watched her fingers start to dance with each other, twirling an imaginary something I between them._

" _Are we rolling," the question sounded foreign to my brain, as I knew that if these words ended up in the documentary I wouldn't want the audience to know of the precious minutes that were wasted with the amateur crew._

 _After receiving the affirmative I settled myself into my chair as I noticed her shoulders square and her features sharpen. Good. I wanted this conversation to be a fight, it would make for good roll._

" _State your name, your current position, and which side of the conflict you were on," the first of the prepared questions - the ones we had briefed - came rolling off my tongue with boredom. Nobody really cared, everyone knew who this was and if they didn't I feared for the education system currently being taught at Hogwarts._

" _Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin," the words came after a slightly pause, her eyes continuing their slide into steel, "Currently Special Liaison to the Auror Office."_

 _The air around us paused assume considered her next words._

" _I began the conflict as a member of the Order of the Phoenix," she finally answered as the words formed the intent I had been looking for, "I ended it as a member of the Earl of Hogsmeade's resistance."_

 _I hoped that she didn't see the victory in my eyes. I wanted to immediately ask her for the difference, but knew that it would not be forthcoming at this point. I would need to lead her to it, like a trainer taught a schoolboy to ignore common sense to plunge at the ground at 140 miles per hour on a broom. I instead continued on the briefed questions._

" _Our previous interviewees have mentioned that something happened that changed the future Earl Hogsmeade after his fifth year at Hogwarts," I drummed my fingers for effect, "Sources indicated you were part of it."_

" _The Department of Mysteries break in?" She questioned, as if rehearsed. Which it was._

" _Yes," I replied, before asking the first question I hadn't briefed, "What was Albus Dumbledore's reaction?"_

 _She closed her eyes for a moment, as if losing herself back in time before opening them up to a shade of purple that matched her hair, "I don't like to speak ill of the dead but his reaction was to send Harry to his relatives and hope that the time away would allow him to grieve for his godfather in peace."_

" _Sirius Black, correct?" My innocent question caused her to almost startle, her prepared train of thought coming something derailed. Good._

" _Yes," she replied, her eyes slightly unfocused looking at a distant point behind me._

" _That didn't happen though," I continued, drawing her back to the moment._

" _No," she replied, her eyes focusing on me again._

" _Tell me what did."_

 _There. The entire reason I had fought so hard to secure this interview._

" _Alastor Moody happened," was the curt reply. I waited for her to continue, and then waited some more. Then some more. I was not going to be the one that talked first, that was how you lost. Right as I felt a gaffer's foot start to tap on the floor as I gazed directly into the eyes of steel before me, her eyes closed and the walls came down._

" _Moody was convinced Professor Dumbledore's was making a massive mistake, leaving Harry alone," she began, "He was also convinced that the Professor was up to something - he felt for a person who the Professor had put a great deal of importance on in Harry he was woefully unprepared for what lay ahead."_

" _Magically?" I interjected, my pen making notes across my pages so I could have anchors to come back to, "Sources indicated that the Lord Hogsmeade was one of the most magically gifted youngsters to have come through Hogwarts since his parents, producing magic as a third year that most adult Aurors have difficulty with."_

" _Not magically, not entirely," she responded, folding her legs and leaning forward, "He was more concerned with where Harry was mentally. A lot of things didn't quite add up to Moody, but he knew for a fact that Harry was nowhere near ready to be mentally capable of being a figurehead during a war."_

" _He expected a teenager to lead an Army?" I replied, my pen circling Dumbledore's name before making an arrow over to a question marked 'Leader?'_

" _No, just be the face of it," she replied, batting my question down._

" _So what did Moody do?" I asked, getting to the heart of the matter, Potter's Lost Summer._

" _He contacted an old friend."_

 **— A Day in the Life —**

Harry woke up suddenly, his eyes immediately searching out for the time. 5 in the morning glared back at him as his eyes quickly adjusted. He stopped himself from falling back into the pillows as he had the previous three days since arriving home from Hogwarts.

He got out of bed, blinked his eyes thrice, and walked out of the smallest room in Number 4, Privet Drive towards the loo where he splashed some water onto his face as had become his morning routine. The water helped chase the creeping numbness away.

"What a mess Harry," he mumbled to himself, observing the heavy black saddles under his eyes that were accented by stress lines emanating from the bridge of his nose, with a garnish of hair languishing in every direction on the top of his head, "Won't find a date to the Royal Ball with those."

He dragged a comb across his head in an attempt to control the misery business that was his hair before giving up the ghost of that issue. As it was it always would be.

He walked back to his room and changed into a pair of Dudley's old athletic clothes that he had nicked from the bin the day after he had come home. They were large on his frame, but that was okay as it was one of the only feelings of being enveloped that he was okay with. He supposed that he would have to do something about the trainers that were falling apart, but for now they would do.

He quietly walked down the stairs and out the back door, stopping to reach up to a loose brick. Opening it easily he grabbed the packet of fags that Dudley had deposited there, took one for himself, put them back, and continued on his way. He gave a slight nod in the general direction of where he knew the Order minder was, and walked away from the home in the prison.

He lit the stick easily with his finger, a small trick that George had taught him at the end of the previous term, and continued walking. If Morpheus would not allow him more than a scant few hours, he would steal it in the tar and the mindlessness of an early morning walk.

Nobody to judge him. Nobody wanting anything. No glances. No smiles. Nothing.

Sweet. Blissful. Nothing.

It was better than letting the thoughts trail back to the reams of paper that were cluttering his too small desk filled with notes on what he knew from years past. Better than letting his thoughts trail to his fifth year's knowledge against a terror that had almost brought an entire realm to its knees.

The blissful nothing that he had attempted to disappear completely into was of course shattered by thinking about what he shouldn't be thinking about in order to disappear.

"I have a fifth years knowledge, how am I supposed to fight with that?" he mumbled to himself flicking the ash off the tar, taking a hesitant drag, and then coughing. He came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the street he was on, letting his mind quickly retrace his steps so that he could return back to his start, his home in a prison.

"Why am I even doing this," he again mumbled, dropping the barely touched fag on the ground, before grinding it out with his worn trainer. He made to walk back, going over in his mind the various exercises to clean it out before he began his day as he had the previous three: starring in the face of five years of coasting and slacking off.

As he quietly entered Number Four, Privet Drive again he made to wave to the Order guard before being brought up short when he saw that it was Moody. His hand still halfway up he finished his wave and could have sworn that he felt the grizzled retired Auror's grunt in response.

He entered the still quiet house and carefully made his way up the stairs before entering the loo again. He slipped out of his trainers, and shed the old hand-me-downs before truly looking at himself in the mirror. Unlike the moments ago that he had just looked at this face, he noticed that his body was more emaciated than it had been before. Had it really only been a few weeks since…?

He closed his eyes, shook his head at his thoughts, and walked back to the smallest bedroom where he was greeted with what appeared to be a scroll waiting on his unmade bed. Finding this curious he unwrapped the twine and unfurled the parchment, noting a faint smell of sulfur in the room.

 _Harry-_

 _I hope this message finds you well, or as well as can be considering your circumstances. I would like to take a moment to apologize to you, once again, and quite emphatically. As I have said before, I am an old man and I make mistakes. I can make mistakes with the best of intentions in mind but mistakes they remain._

 _I am not perfect Harry, and I ask that you please remember this. Nobody is perfect, in fact, but that doesn't mean that you do not have a right to be angry about it. I have made my fair share of mistakes in my life in which I deserve righteous anger, and if yours is one I shall bear for the remainder of my life it is a burden I have brought upon myself through my actions alone._

 _As part of my apology I wish to offer you two tokens. One of these is perhaps my favorite story ever written and something that has given me hope in times of great strife. The other is your father's ring, that your romp around my office caused me to rediscover again. It's been away from your possession for too long, it is with my sincerest apologies that I return it to you._

 _Finally, while you will be leaving my imposed exile sooner than you think I implore you to please not dwell on the coming roads that must be traveled. You will not do so alone, or unprepared._

 _With great humbleness,  
_ _Albus Dumbledore_

As he finished the screed he noticed that a small book had appeared on his bed with a weighty ring on top of it. He looked the well worn book over, before placing it on the stack which was overflowing on his desk. The ring...this had been his father's.

He held it in the palm of his hand and rolled it around for a minute, unsure what to do. This was the ring of a man who had openly defied Voldemort, and had done so much more than he ever had. Sirius had idolized this man up until the moment he died. He had his faults, surely, but in the end he had done what was right.

He was a better man than he ever could be, but he knew that his father would have wanted him to have this. He tentatively tried to put it on his finger and was dismayed that it was too large for him.

Of course it was.

Eventually he grabbed the twine which had bound the letter that Professor Dumbledore had sent him, strung it through the opening of the ring, and fashioned a beggar's necklace out of one day his hand would fit the ring, but right now it would have to wait - like all things.

Shaking his head, he continued about his morning business in the sweet release that was the quietness of the standard issue English middle class house that he was forced to call home.

A few hours later he was startled from his thoughts by an almost polite knocking at the door. He looked down at himself and saw that his third year transfiguration book was open against his chest. He looked for his clock and saw that five hours had slipped away without his even having noticed. He blinked a few times before making sure that his wand was still strapped to his arm before creeping out of the room to see who in their right mind would be visiting this house unannounced in the middle of the day.

His Aunt was the one to the door, happy to ignore the presence in her life that was her only nephew. He took a position on the stairs in the shadows, not wanting to be fully seen. He realized it was with an unusual amount of paranoia that he would think one would do him ill after politely knocking on the door.

"Can I help?" Mrs. Petunia Dursley asked as she opened the door to a man wearing a ridiculously nice suit. Harry immediately spied the family crest that was stitched into the breast, before noting that the man may in fact have giant blood in him as he seemed to tower over his Aunt. He briefly wondered if the man played prop in rugby as he took in his close cropped hair and massive build.

It took both him and his Aunt a second to realize that there was in fact an older gentleman in front of the impeccably dressed man.

"The Honorable Ethan Lethbridge-Stewart, Earl of Waveney, to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Dursley and their nephew H. Potter," the man announced, his voice in a clipped tone that reminded Harry's ear of some of the more posh classmates at his school.

"Mr. Lethbridge-Stewart," Petunia began after a moment of trying to catch herself.

"Mrs. Dursley," a northern timber came out of the tree trunk, "You may have noticed that I was announced as an Earl, so you would do right to address me as such."

"My apologies Lord Waveney, please come in," Petunia quickly recovered as she let the large prescience and his attaché in. Harry was actually surprised that he fit through the door, and then briefly wondered if this is what Dudley would have looked like if he hadn't been enjoying the misspent youth he currently enjoyed.

"Where might Mr. Dursley be?" The clipped tones enjoined, as Harry felt the eyes of the apparent Earl notice him with beggared curiosity.

"He is at work," Petunia replied, her hands gripping themselves in a want for knowing what to do.

"Easy enough then," came the authoritative burr, his eyes tracing over all the holes, beams, windows, and doilies, "I'm here to speak regarding your nephew, he is to be placed in my charge for the rest of his summer vacation. You will be compensated for the time you have thus kept him and will politely keep your mouths shut about such arrangements."

Petunia gulped, and then stood up out of the slouch that Harry had not even noticed that she was in.

"Now you listen here," the paramour of Vernon Dursley rumbled to the surface.

"No, you listen here," came a third burr, and in stepped - the visage at least of - Alastor Moody, "Everything has already been arranged. We have just cut you out of the equation, the nice way this time."

His second eye traveled over to where Harry was still keeping himself in the shadows.

"Potter, go grab the basics really quickly, we're leaving now."

His heart thudding against the ring that now adorned the cavity of his chest, Harry finally rediscovered his voice that had thus far remained hidden in the shadows with him. The fact that it was in the style of the man in front of him notwithstanding of course, "How do I know it's-"

"I was locked in a trunk, I picked you up last year, and I told you to make sure to not keep your wand next to your buttocks," one eye still focused on him and the other on his aunt, "Glad you listened. Now, we need to make this quick, his Lordship here isn't exactly subtle."

"Petunia, Mr. Wallace will be in touch to set up the details of your compensation," the rumbling bear in the corner interjected, "Harry, please grab the basics and wait in the car with Mr. Moody, I'll be out in a second."

Harry stood rooted to the spot for a moment, before the clipped knocking of Moody's leg on the stairs inspired him into action. He immediately turned and walked into his room to open his trunk.

"You won't be needing that," the scarred retired Auror started, closing the trunk with a snap of his wand, "Grab a change of clothes, your coat, put them in your pack, and let's get a move on."

Harry bristled slightly under the command, the feeling of being ordered around without being given a reason had tainted his life thus far and only led to bad things. Still, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and did as Moody said. He knew that making a scene now would not be beneficial.

"Where am I going?" he asked instead as he stuffed a few of his nicer clothes into his bag, along with the battered book that Dumbledore had sent him.

"Not now lad," Moody replied, guiding Harry out of the smallest bedroom at Number Four, Privet Drive with his hand, "Don't worry, you'll know more soon."

As he left he felt Moody cast a spell over his room and briefly wondered if the Ministry would be saying anything about that, but didn't have enough time to properly consider a response to the inevitable owl as a scarred hand continued to rabbit him down the stairs and out the front door. He hadn't seen the previous pair that had almost been shaking his Aunt down but heard voices coming from the kitchen.

If it wasn't for the hand of Moody behind him and Dumbledore's mysterious words in his letter from the morning he would have rooted his feet to the spot, consequences be damned, and demand answers. Instead, he did as he had done thus far in his life: go with the direction the river wanted him to go.

Right now the water was pushing him out his front door into another completely unknown situation, and he had no choice but to accept that once again he had no choice in the matter. His heart continued to pound against the golden ring that sat on his chest as he saw an impressive black car in front of the house.

It was almost inviting him in for a new adventure.

Moody pushed him along, snatching the hat out of Harry's hand and shoving it on his head before pushing him into the back of the slightly elongated car. Before he even got a chance to catch his breath and appeal to a reason of what was next he spied the previously identified Lord Lethbridge-Stewart leave his former home with the Mr. Wallace half a pace behind him.

It was with an odd detachment as this new scene in his life was building around him that he noticed a slight limp in the mountain man's gait which made it slightly hard for him to get into the car and sit across from Harry, who was also joined his hip shortly afterwards.

"Potter I want you to meet an old friend of mine," Moody said as the car started moving, gesturing with his free hand, "Name is Major Ethan Lethbridge-Stewart, his father is apparently a pretty big deal for the muggles."

Harry looked up at the man who merely shrugged his shoulders (he wasn't sure how the coat he was in wasn't ripping in the man's muscular girth) while he kept his hands clasped on his lap, gazing out the back window.

"What's important is that for the rest of the summer, you're going to be with him," Moody continued, "You're woefully behind where you need to be and he'll get you back up to snuff."

The car continued on it's path in a heavy silence, Harry's eyes darting around while his now companions remaining calm yet vigilant. Body continued to twitch at every perceived bump in the road, while Lord Lethbridge-Stewart gazed impassively out the back window. The slight hum of stringed instruments only contributed to Harry's feeling that the walls of the car were about to cave in.

He finally couldn't take it anymore.

"Excuse me," he said, before coughing into his hand as four eyes immediately settled on him, "can someone tell me what's going on here...uh, sir?"

"Go ahead and call me Ethan, Harry," the now less titled mountain intoned, hands folded and yet looking like they could snatch the soul out of a man in an instant, "I don't much rate anything more than that at the moment."

"Alright, Ethan, and Professor Moody," Harry corrected as the walls seemed to be growing ever smaller, "What the hell is going on?!"

His anger finally breaking its way to the top, Harry prepared to flinch for the expected rebuke. After a moment he noticed that the man sitting across from him was giving him a stern, yet sympathetic look.

"Lad I told you," Moody replied, one of his eyes diverting to outside the window, "Professor Dumbledore and I agreed that mistakes had been made. They needed to be rectified."

Both eyes focused on him again.

"I also figured that you needed to get away. Ethan here can get your mind straight, get your body to where it needs to be."

The natural defiance that only escaped when it felt the need to creeped into Harry's throat again, "I don't need-"

"Bullshit," Lethbridge-Stewart cut across, his hands silently forming into a tent in front of him as he rested his elbows on his curiously well tailored trousers. Harry blinked as he wondered if he was escaping the car with his life.

"You need it," Moody punctuated as the car came to a stop, "Now you're going away with his Lordship to who knows where, and you're going to get some time to yourself, and some meat on your bones."

He was quickly escorted out of the car and into what he realized was an airplane hanger, where an unremarkable plane was waiting with a small crew quickly moving to unload the boot of the car which had driven him.

As he was bundled up into the plane he was momentarily stopped by Moody once again.

"Potter, it wasn't your fault," the grim faced man said as a final salutation before disappearing with a crack. The powerful hand of Lethbridge-Stewart guided him up the stairs and into the cabin. Having never flown before he was secured and helped by one of the plane's crew - who also brought him a small glass of sparkling water.

Looking around he saw that this plane was nothing like he had ever seen before. It looked more like a conference room than an oversized flying bus.

He watched out the window as he left Earth for the first time not of his own volition. It was twenty minutes before he realized that for the first time in his recent memory that he literally was at a lack of constant thought.

"I'm hoping that you won't need to use your wand over the next few weeks but you'd probably do good to keep it on you," the northern burr broke the silence as Harry noticed for the first time the smoldering mountain was across from him, "Alastor assures me that once we can no longer see England that your Ministry of Magic won't be able to track its use."

"Wait, you're not…" Harry trails off, having assumed that he would be in the company of a rather powerful magical user to be allowed to go off as such.

"Heavens no," the man's laugh is more of a rumbling storm than a bark, "98% normal, but not a drop of magic."

"98 sir?" Harry asks, latching onto the one thing his brain could manage.

"Lost the other two percent in the Special Air Service," was grinning answer.

"Where are we going, um, Lord Lef-"

"My Father is the Lord Harry, I'm Ethan," he paused, considering his words, "Unless we're out in public, then it would probably be best if you did address me by my title...I suppose I could infuriate you by telling you we're going on an adventure?"

Harry surprised himself with the bite of his answer.

"Yes."

This time the laughter was more of a bark.

"You're weak, Harry," came his answer after a moment, "For someone that needs to face death on a consistent basis you look like you'd barely be able to run a mile without falling over, much less last more than five minutes in a sustained fight."

The truth of the statement hung over the cabin as the memories of the last few years flew before Harry's eyes.

"To answer your question we're going to a place where there's sunshine, booze, and people that don't know who you are," Ethan continued, before uncrossing his legs and leaning towards Harry, "Now we have about ten more hours up here, why don't you tell me a little about yourself?"

—

" _This old friend, was the the muggle Earl of Waveney?" I asked, this was common knowledge that the Earl of Hogsmeade had counted the other Earl as a mentor. What was not known however…_

" _Yes, he had apparently worked hand in hand with Moody on some minor matter of national security once," the steel eyed woman replied, flippantly._

" _So Moody reached out to this muggle to what? Surely not teach him magic," I stated, intentionally trying to goad the woman across from me._

" _Teach magic? No," she laughed, reaching down for the glass of water my assistant had placed their earlier and drawing a long sip, "He was muggle through and through."_

" _Then what?" I implored, leaning forward this time._

" _We never found out for sure," she replied, folding her hands over her now still leg as a small pain started to form slightly behind my eyeball, "But what we do know is that when Harry left for the summer he was almost scared of his own shadow."_

 _She paused, making sure that my eyes were on her. Even if I wasn't interested in this story I certainly would have been, she knew how to use her features to her advantage. Even still, her insistence on being the stone I pulled blood from was both infuriating and fascinating._

" _When he came back though," she laughed, almost a musical pitch to her lilt, "England did not know what had been deployed in it."_

—

" _But, Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,  
_ _In proving foresight may be vain;  
_ _The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men  
_ _Gang aft agley,  
_ _An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,  
_ _For promis'd joy!"_

"To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest With the Plough, November, 1785  
Robert Burns


	2. Gunga Din, Pt 1

— **of the Copybook Headings  
** _words by H.P. Birdman (unless noted)_

"Not only intellectuals, however, but society at large seemed to Kipling to have fallen into habit of wishful thinking and to have forgotten the age-old, unfashionable wisdom enunciated by the Gods of the Copybook Headings." - Andrew Rutherford, "Introduction" in _War Stories and Poems_ by Rudyard Kipling

—

 _ **If you are on desktop, please note that this story looks much more pleasing to the eye with the "Story Width" set at 1/2.**_

—

 **Chapter Two: Gunga Din, Pt. 1**

—

" _So the basic point of this is you ask me questions and I tell you all about how Harry won the war?"_

 _It was a carefully worded question that let me feel the steel of the trap that it was trying to force me into. As my assistant refocused the light to catch the vibrant red hair of the woman across from me I gave a forced laugh._

" _When you put it like that Ms. Weasley, yes," I responded, opening my palms up towards her as if I was giving up. We both knew that I wasn't._

" _Everyone knows how the Earl Hogsmeade won the war," I started as she took a measured sip from the thermos that she had brought with her, "But no one really knows, as you understand. I seek to show the story underneath the story."_

" _I am sure that is all you seek," it was said in such a way that a lesser reporter would have just agreed and been forced at the beck and call of one of England's greatest Quidditch players._

" _Obviously I search the fame and fortune that being the person who can tell this story will provide," I stated instead, happy to set the woman who had once scored from halfway across the pitch onto her back foot, "I make no bones about that. That is why you're here first of all, and Romilda Vane isn't."_

 _We both scoffed, my point driven home. I decided to put the final hammer on top of it._

" _Anybody can say what they saw from the sidelines, that is why everyone 'knows' what happened," I clapped my hands together, "A select few people were front and center, actually dodging the bludgers. That, Ms. Weasley, is why you're here."_

 _My director of photography signaled from behind me that he had been recording. Perfect._

" _So please state your name, current occupation, and which side of the conflict that you were on," I rolled the easy preface off of my tongue._

" _Ginny Weasley, currently basking in the glow of my Quidditch career," she replied with the false smile that every professional athlete acquired after years of interviews, "I was of course of Harry's side of the conflict."_

 _With a person like this you have to go in for the kill from the start._

" _You at one point had a crush of Sir Potter, did you not?" people would probably expect a blush, a stammered answer, and a denial. They obviously were not paying attention._

" _I still do in fact!" she replied with a laugh, signaling that my efforts to disarm here had paid off, "How could you not?"_

" _When did you first get to know him?" I further asked, "Was it when he spent summer after summer in the company of your brothers?"_

" _Heavens no," she replied, her eyes searching for years past, "I dare say that he barely even acknowledged I was there unless I was dipping my arm into the butter."_

 _She paused, years of memories dancing in the eyes which had mesmerized many a boy's bedroom before stating, "It would have to be in my fourth year at Hogwarts. He was in charge of the Defence Club, and that was really the first time we existed in the same social circle."_

" _That would be the famous Dumbledore's Army, correct?" I asked, clarifying for editing purposes. She nodded, taking another sip of her drink._

" _A lot of the people we have interviewed have said that Lord Hogsmeade changed almost overnight after that year," I stated, as her eyes engaged mine, "Do you have any insight to that, seeing that you had just recently before not even moved in the same social circle as he?"_

" _You have to understand, when I was growing up I was told all these tales about Harry," she replied, only looking slightly embarrassed, "When I first met Harry it took a while to marry the tales all of us children were told about the conquering hero with the meek boy who only wanted to be friends with my brother and Hermione."_

 _She took a breath, scrunching her nose up as she chose her next words._

" _When Harry went home for the summer after Sirius died I expected fire when he came back," her fingertips started dancing with each other, "I was not expecting what came back instead."_

" _What came back?" I asked._

" _Sex on legs," she said with a smirk._

 **— Greet the Day —**

Harry was not sure what the worst way in being woken up was, but having a bucket of ice water dumped on top of him would probably qualify for the discussion throughout the length of his life. Not the least which because of how cold it was.

"Up Potter! Greet the day!" came the booming voice of his minder for the summer, as another bucket deluged him, "Let's move it! Put your exercise clothes on! Hurry up, hurry up!"

He barely missed a third bucket as the mountain of a man laughed. He grabbed his glasses from where he had put them the night before and noticed a brand new set of training clothes had been laid out for him. They were now slightly wet, but so was everything else in this room.

He changed with an astonishing lack of modesty as he felt the wind blow in through the barely curtained windows that only helped to keep the humidity at bay slightly. He went to walk out of the room before the booming voice of Ethan chided him into running.

To where, he did not know.

"Alright now, follow me!" the bear of a man said once they had reached the beach that the bungalow he had been introduced to the night before was on. They set up on a moderately paced run up the beach.

"Where are we going?" Harry asked, having difficulty keeping his balance or pace in the sand.

"We have no food in the house, there is a market with our breakfast in it two miles down the beach," Ethan replied, moving with a nimbleness in the sand, "The base of all strength is endurance. You're a wizard, I have a gimp knee. Between the two of us we will earn our kippers this morning!"

"Two miles?" Harry responded, his lungs and legs already burning.

"And not an inch too far!" came the laughing response as Harry felt muscles in his legs activating and stretching that he had not even imagined inhabiting his body before. He had never actually ran more than a mile sustained at a time beforehand, and now this crazy muggle wanted him to do two? In the sand? He was sure that he was about to meet his death at not the end of a wand but the loose grains of the island beach when the former soldier slowed to a stop, waiting for Harry to catch up to him.

What he had hoped was for a small respite turned into what was termed an "active rest," with Ethan leading him in a round of press ups, sit ups, and then repeated until he was sure his arms and his sides would cave. It was then back on his feet for more jogging.

His thoughts trailed back to the night before, when they had first arrived on the island after a pretty silent plane ride in which Harry had busied himself in reading about the three brothers in the book that Professor Dumbledore had sent to him.

They had arrived at the bungalow house under the cover of darkness, and it had beckoned for them as if it had been prepared for their arrival. Which, if Harry considered, was probably true just based off of the breeding that Ethan Lethbridge-Stewart exuded. The man himself remained quite the mystery to Harry, and while he knew that Moody (and thus Professor Dumbledore) had to have trusted him he wasn't sure what to make of the man. He obviously had the military feel about him, but he wasn't sure how a muggle would be able to prepare him to defeat Voldemort of all people.

"This room over here is going to be yours," Ethan had said, gesturing towards a room that was situated looking out at the beach, "I'd tell you more but as you insist on not talking much at the moment I have no idea what you'd want to know. I suggest you get some sleep, because tomorrow you will be answering my questions whether you like it or not."

The threat hung over the air for a second as Harry turned to regard the man, whom Harry noticed was only a few inches taller than him in reality.

"If you want to send post back to your friends, leave it in the kitchen on the counter, Wallace will make sure it gets back to England," he said with a softening of his features, but only slightly, "Drink this before you go to sleep for the night. You'll thank me later."

He handed Harry a bottled water that Harry wasn't sure where it had came from, before turning around and leaving Harry to himself and the solitude of the room. He had fallen asleep shortly afterwards on the bed provided to the sound of waves crashing. It was only after thinking back now that he realized that not a single troubling dream had occurred the night before.

He was shocked out of his memories (or really his brain's attempt at blocking out the pain coursing through his body at the exercise he was currently being forced into) when he was suddenly body tackled by his solid trainer.

"Bad show Potter!" came his booming voice as Ethan wrestled him down into the sand, before mounting him on his back and putting him into a choke hold that left him searching desperately for a method out. Something to stop the feeling of helplessness as Ethan easily demonstrated how simple it was to kill him.

Right as Harry thought that he actually was about to die and had stopped struggling, Ethan let him free. He lay in the sand for a moment, collecting his breath. The world was spinning on top of him, and there was a pain in his head, lungs, legs, and heart that he had never felt before.

It was helplessness. He really, truly was completely helpless for the first time that he could remember.

"Get up Potter," came the rough voice, a more hardened voice this time, "Every time you let your mind wander away from the mission you can count on me to put it back on course for you."

Harry struggled to get up for a second before Ethan reached down and easily lifted him up. He dusted Harry off for a quick moment, before taking off on a jog again and motioning for Harry to follow.

"The only reason that the ground exists, Harry," Ethan said as Harry struggled to keep up, "Is so that we can learn to pick ourselves up off of it."

The torture continued for Harry as the sun rose next to them, gradually casting a longer shadow. Every so often Ethan would make Harry stop, and then do press ups and sit ups again before popping back up and continuing their trek in the sand. If Ethan felt that Harry was starting to lag behind too much, he would be tackled again and put in another exhausting choke hold while being scolded for "giving up too easily."

Eventually, they made their way to the promised market. Harry noticed that Mr. Wallace was waiting for the pair at a table holding plenty of fruits, and breads. He wasn't sure what the greatest meal he had ever ate before this one, but he knew that none had ever tasted as well. Nor had any previous meals been one that he had earned so thoroughly in his mind.

He would, however, not ever be able to tell exactly what he ate as he shoved it into his mouth without a thought as his body craved whatever could be given it to make up for the massive pit that had formed.

After eating to almost bursting Harry noticed that Ethan was eating at a much more leisurely pace while actually reading a newspaper. He was also absently rubbing his knee which for the first time Harry noticed was heavily scarred. He was about to ask about it when Ethan laid the newspaper down on the table, put his knee brace back on, and beckoned for Harry to follow him.

They walked back down the beach, now bathed in sunlight. The first mile was in silence, just the sound of waves around them. It was calming.

"We're going to start every morning like this until you can learn to fight me off," Ethan eventually broke the silence.

"I don't think I'm ever going to be able to do that," Harry replied, incredulous. This man was a trained killer and he expected him to be able to fight him off? Even after seeing all the wonder of the magical world he knew that was insanity. He reiterated, "Ever."

Ethan laughed, clapping Harry on the back.

"You doubt yourself too much Potter," the man said, stretching his purpose built arms above his head, "That is no way for a gentleman to act."

"I don't know what Professor Moody told you, but I'm not much of a gentleman," Harry replied, shaking his head in amusement.

"I'm not either, but appearances are 80% of life," was the laughing response, before attempting to tackle Harry again. This time Harry quickly stepped out of the way having seen the move coming. Ethan congratulated him before correcting him on his posture.

And so it continued all the way back to the beach house.

— A short distance, fast —

A week later Harry was just starting to stir from sleep when he feels a presence over him.

Without thinking he launched out of bed and over the piles of books and notes that now littered the floor right as the water drenched where he had been moments ago. He grabbed his glasses and trainers and bolted out the front door of the bungalow as Ethan's laughter followed him.

He was able to outrun the former military man until they reached the sand where his still inexperienced feet betrayed him with their instability, and he was tackled in short order.

In comparison to where he was the week before instead of thrashing about blindly and then simply accepting his fate he was able to resist with some of the basic methods that the bear that was currently mauling him had been imparting onto him.

He still lost the fight in about twenty seconds.

He then launched into his now daily regimen of press ups, sit ups, and other calisthenics before setting out at a pace he could sustain down the beach.

"A sprint will get you a short distance fast," Ethan had told him the second morning after stopping him from running as fast as he could, as if away from something, "But you'll never be able to sprint a long distance."

Every five minutes they still stop for more press ups and sit-ups, but now it is routine. His entire body was burning, but after a week he has grown used to the aches and the pains. He knows better what his actual limit is, and what is just his mind forcing him to stop due to the unknown. He still slows down every so often (leading to Ethan jumping on him, but again he can hold his own for longer than before) because he has only been at this for a week, he knows that he will not become the special forces soldier that Ethan was in the short time he is here.

He was still pondering exactly what he is to be gaining from this time away other than a tan and the ability to run for miles, but as of the moment he has to trust in whatever wisdom and guidance that Professor Dumbledore had in signing off on this.

They made it to the cafe they have been to every morning to find Wallace waiting for them.

"That was the fastest time this week, gentlemen," the attache commented as he handed Ethan a newspaper, and Harry a glass of water.

"I told you that with the right application you would start seeing results Harry," Ethan booms with a laugh as Harry was still catching his breath. He just waved the larger man off, stretching his legs for a minute before sitting down to the customary breakfast of various fruits, breads. and meats. Ethan had implored him that the proper diet was responsible for the tone of the day, and Harry was starting to appreciate it.

In fact, while he was still searching for the purpose of him being down here - his mind was right, thank you very much, he just had to deal with more than any teenager ever should have to - he did appreciate what it was allowing him to do. After a full week away from the nightmares, and physically exhausting his body daily he was actually in a decent mood.

Of course, thinking about why he was in a bad mood in the first place only served the effort of launching him back into a pissy one. He tried to clamp down on it as he strove for the carbohydrates that he knew his body would be aching for during a sparring session later but he knew it was showing on his face. While Mr. Wallace was too nice to make note of it, only giving him a glass of juice, he knew that Ethan noticed it. The man noticed everything.

He didn't comment on it though, preferring to let Harry work his way through his own thoughts. It was annoying in a way that Harry wasn't sure why. He hated when people tried to get him to 'talk about what was bothering him.' He would have thought that letting him stew in his own thoughts would have been preferable, but dammit he wanted to be able to voice what was bothering him.

Even if he couldn't put a finger on what it was.

With breakfast finished they started to walk back down to the bungalow to go into the lessons that Ethan had been putting Harry through on classical literature, close quarter fighting, and meditating. The walk back was beautiful as always, and while he was in a bad mood he had learned to appreciate the mental solitude and beauty of where he was at.

The little things that before he was going too fast through life to notice really started to stand out in these moments.

"I remember once sitting on a runway, waiting to get into a plane and jump into enemy territory," Ethan's voice came into focus above the haze that was Harry's cloudy mind, "One of our patrols had been lost, and we needed to do a search and rescue. They kept on finding reasons for not sending us, and to this day I'm still pretty tossed about it."

Harry stared at Ethan, seeing him look out into the water a thousand miles away in memory.

"What happened?" he asked, expecting to be told how everything eventually folded its way up into a bow. Wasn't that the point to these types of stories? _Hey Harry, bad things happen but if you work through them eventually everything turns out alright!_

"Three of my friends died because our superiors hesitated about pulling the trigger," Ethan bluntly stated, a mask shimmering over his face as Harry barely avoided tripping, "A couple of weeks later, after all was said and their bodies recovered, we all got official apologies."

"They said they should have let us go, they were just too worried about losing more of us."

"How long did it take you to forgive them," Harry replied with a bitterness lacing his voice, sensing this story was just a way to enforce into his mind just how sorry Professor Dumbledore was and to continue trusting his overall judgement. He was getting tired of those lines, of course he still trusted the old man.

"When I do I'll let you know," Ethan muttered, picking up a rock and hauling it into the water with force before turning away and continuing to walk, "Are you coming, or are you going to stare at the water all day?"

Later that day brought Harry laying on his back in frustration wearing protective gear as Ethan ran him through his paces in kickboxing. The man had commented that it was good for his mind, and body to participate in such a structured yet violent setting.

"It's where boys learn how to be men," he had explained while tossing him protective headgear the first day. It certainly had helped his reflexes quite quickly as he did not enjoy being hit in the head repeatedly.

The week of regular (intense) exercise and proper eating had put his body in the best shape that it had ever been in. He knew that Ethan was holding back on him as the man had years and mountains of experience over him. Today though was reminding him of Professor Dumbledore and that he has been treated like a child in a man's war.

"Are you going to lay there all day?" Ethan's booming voice echoed through private room in the gym. The constant flow of doing things because they were good for him, or improve him, or _just do this Harry_ finally snapped the frayed thread in his head that he hadn't realized had been holding his emotions in check.

"I want you to stop treating me like a child and attack me," Harry ground out as he got to one knee, and then pushed himself into the fighting position that Ethan had taught him the first day.

"You're not ready," the man stated, dropping his hands and bluntly accessing Harry. This was not what he had wanted to hear.

"I'm sick and tired of being told I'm not ready!" he lunged at the much stronger man, his arms throwing inexperienced jabs and hooks that were easily parried. A response was not enjoined.

"Do you want to know what happens when you charge into battle head on without being ready?" Ethan asked, easily swatting Harry's hands away. Harry thought back to the Department of Mysteries as he saw his strongest blows batted away as not even a minor annoyance.

"I think I do," he gasped out, his body already weakening under the strain of attack.

"No, you don't," came the stone reply. He slipped past one of Harry's ineffectual throwing of his hands in Ethan's general direction and exploded in a flurry of concentrated violence. He kicked Harry so hard in the side of his leg that it buckled. Before he could even gasp out in pain, a vicious uppercut landed on his chin sending him into blissful oblivion.

The next thing that Harry knew he was laying on the ground with Mr. Wallace applying a wet towel to his now throbbing head. He felt his head being cradled in Mr. Wallace's hands and spied Ethan standing a few feet away staring out the window.

"It is necessary to be a fox to avoid the snares, and a lion to scare away the wolves," he quoted, before turning towards Harry and looking down on him, "I seem to remember this being in a book I gave to you to read."

He started walking out of the room, stopping long enough to shout over his shoulder, "Take the rest of the day off, we're going to have a chat before dinner. Wallace make sure he gets back."

Harry shortly after found himself in his room, considering his earlier rashness. It was becoming a recurring story over the past few years of his life: get the minimum amount of training and then lash out, shortly followed by getting violently reminded of his level on the totem pole. It was doubly frustrating for him because he was sick of people treating him like a meek child, and then immediately proving everyone right.

People wanted him to be this leader, to be this figurehead and he was still just 15. He picked up the copy of _Les Misérables_ that Ethan had given him to read and tried to push these thoughts out of his head and concentrate on whatever twisted lesson he was supposed to learn from this book.

Before he knew it, Mr. Wallace was knocking on his door.

"Lord Lethbridge-Stewart is ready to speak with you, Mr. Potter," the majordomo explained in his clipped tones. Harry thanked the man and followed him to Ethan's room where the man was getting ready in evening dress which had a neat row of decorations on jacket.

"Come in Harry," he said, doing and undoing the bow tie. Harry walked it, tapping his hands against his thighs were a slight phantom pain had emerged to remind him of his stupidity from earlier in the day. Ethan waved a hand at an empty chair that was to the side of him.

"I told you before Harry that your story would be told when it needs to be told," Ethan said, finally getting frustrated with the tie and tossing it onto his dresser and instead focusing on his cufflinks, "That's fine, but every time you let your anger get the best of you the same result that happened today will happen."

Harry made a noise so that he could agree but quieted immediately after a sharp look.

"That is not a metaphor. You will get beaten down, and other people will get hurt."

Walking over and standing next to Harry he received a tumbler from Mr. Wallace who had just walked in. Wallace sighed and grabbed the bow tie and started putting it on Ethan for him.

"Now, we're going to a dinner tonight," Ethan continued, much more brightly, "My father's friends are going to be there and it will be dreadfully boring. You also have a mission tonight: get out of your comfort zone."

He took a draw of his drink as Mr. Wallace finished tying the black cloth around his neck.

"You are going to be dressed as a gentleman, and most importantly, someone that's supposed to be there," Ethan waved his hand at Mr. Wallace in thanks, "Go get ready, Wallace will help you. Look in the mirror before you put your clothes on Harry. You're rich, good looking, and I will beat the living shit out of you if you embarrass me."

Harry laughed a nervous laugh at the obvious dismissal as he followed Mr. Wallace out of the room. This was going to be a disaster.

—

" _I'm assuming that you and the Earl of Hogsmeade became," I paused for effect, I would be editing my voice out of this part, "Involved for a bit then?"_

" _Oh not in the slightest!" she laughed, waving the question off of her._

" _Really?" I responded, genuinely surprised, "The best friends sister, all the possible alone time, two gorgeous humans?"_

 _She snorted at my leading questions, "Maybe in a different life time we could have gotten together, but when he came back he was Harry_ _ **Fucking**_ _Potter, and I was his best friend's little sister. I stood no chance really."_

 _She paused, "That's not to say that we weren't friends, but when he came back he more became an older brother to me than anything. He helped me become who I am today."_

" _How so?" I asked, leaning forward. She paused, considering letting out what she probably considered the state secrets. She drummed her fingers on her thigh for a moment before committing._

" _After my first year, and no I won't go into detail on it as much of it's well known, I started to have self destructive tendencies. I started really acting out at times. Nobody really noticed, they just put it down to little Ginny Weasley being such a firebrand!"_

 _She sighed._

" _Harry noticed," she stated, emphatically, "When he left for the summer he was in pain, if he wanted to admit it or not. When he came back he had learned how to channel that pain and when he saw me? He knew I was screaming out in pain but didn't know how to say it."_

" _He saved my life really," she remarked, looking down, a pink tinge colouring her cheeks, "And gave me the confidence to not be defined by my pain."_

—

" _The uniform 'e wore  
_ _Was nothin' much before,  
_ _An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,  
_ _For a piece o' twisty rag  
_ _An' a goatskin water-bag  
_ _Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.  
_ _When the sweatin' troop-train lay  
_ _In a sidin' through the day,  
_ _Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,  
_ _We shouted 'Harry By!'  
_ _Till our throats were bricky-dry,  
_ _Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all."  
_ "Gunga Din"  
Rudyard Kipling


End file.
